


glass, irony, and grief

by joanofarcstan



Series: and death was his reward [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Post-Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Self-Hatred, everyone give maedhros a hug because by god he needs it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:00:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29591772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joanofarcstan/pseuds/joanofarcstan
Summary: After the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, Maedhros hears that Turgon is having the Noldorin histories rewritten to protect Fingon's reputation.There lay friendship between Fingon and Maedhros—friendship, and no more.(Here again is the war between history and love.)'Turgon has my thanks,' says Maedhros, and another movement of the song closes in grief.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë
Series: and death was his reward [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2174022
Comments: 29
Kudos: 48





	glass, irony, and grief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daphnerunning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/gifts).



> 0\. absolutely 100% the fault of the silm discord; specifically, blame daphnerunning.  
> 1\. title adapted from anne carson's essay _glass, irony, and god_.

The news that Turgon is having the Noldorin histories rewritten only brings Maedhros relief. Turgon will have him erased as a lover, and mentioned only as an ally. _There lay friendship between Fingon and Maedhros as there lay between Fingon and every foe of Morgoth, and no more._

'Good,' says Maedhros to his brother, staring distantly to the West from whence Fingon would once come riding. _No more, and never again._ He looks elsewhere. Still he does not meet Maglor's eyes.

For Fingon—the valiant, the loyal, the beloved—was everything Maedhros is not. Fingon was the commander who crossed the Ice when he believed himself abandoned, the lover who walked into Angband when he believed himself forsaken, the king who cried that the day had come when he believed himself betrayed.

There is another thing that Maedhros is forgetting, or perhaps he does not _want_ to remember it. Yet before him falls a shore in place of a plain, sand and sea in place of snow, kin in place of foes. (They are not really so different, the last ones, for Maedhros son of Fëanor.) For a brief, aching moment, sharp as a knife-shard to his heart, he sees Fingon, feet slipping on sand washed red with blood, sword gleaming cold and hard in the light of harbour lamps yet lit, eyes bright—as firelight mirrored in broken glass is bright—at the horror and death that blooms crimson from shore to sea between them.

Is it not true that Fingon took but one look at his betrothed, and without another thought stained his sword and stained his soul, damned himself for Maedhros alone?

And yet it is Maedhros—Maedhros who lives for Fingon’s ill-fated loyalty—who was too weak-willed to stop his father from burning the ships, who was craven enough to yearn and yield when Sauron wore a familiar face and braided gold into his hair. Fingon would tell him otherwise, would stroke his hair and murmur that nothing was his fault, but Fingon is not here, thinks Maedhros with a vicious smile, and Maedhros despises himself.

So when Maglor seizes him by the shoulders and demands how Maedhros can say that such a thing as Turgon is doing is _good_ , when Maedhros—and he does not finish, but it does not matter—Maedhros smiles, bitter and brittle like the ice beneath his boots. Did it glitter and crunch the same way when Fingon crossed the Ice?

_How can you say, 'Good,' when—_

‘When I loved him?’ He does not wait for Maglor’s response. ‘Think, brother. I loved him better than oaths and life and love itself.’

‘What are you saying, Maitimo?’ The worried look in Maglor’s eyes makes him shake his head. He is only tired, tired like he never was when he knew Fingon lived, even when he hung from Thangorodrim.

‘It is better that his memory rests untainted.’ Half a millenium of self-loathing, neatly packaged in fewer than ten words.

'You don't _taint_ his memory.'

 _Incredible_.

'I don't?' Maedhros shakes, howls with laughter, wild and unhinged, even as tears freeze on his cheeks. Good. He deserves it. 'I—kinslayer, traitor, the one who gave him death for his loyalty— _I_ don't taint his memory? I counted you cleverer than this, brother.'

'So you blame yourself for the Moringotto's crimes?' Maglor reaches out to lay a hand on his shoulder, but Maedhros recoils. (The only touch he wants is Fingon's, but Fingon is dead for _Maedhros'_ stubbornness and recklessness and arrogance, and Maedhros has never deserved his kindness anyway.) Still Maglor presses on—foolish, kind. 'That isn't what Findekáno would have wanted.'

'And who are you to say what he would have wanted?' He means to wound, to thrust the knife in and twist it, for what does Maedhros son of Fëanor do better than hurting the people he loves? Perhaps it is better, even, if Maglor hates him; for Fingon loved him, and what reward did that bring him but death?

Yet Maedhros, it seems, is not the only one who remembers Maglor as kind. 'I loved him, too,' says Maglor softly. 'Not as you did, but I knew him nonetheless. He would have wanted you to remember him with love, not self-hatred.'

_Love?_

For Fingon, of course, always. His memory is shrouded in the light of the West that bled but never died, in the gold of the rising sun and the silver of the longing moon and the blue of the ocean that in dreams is yet undyed with blood. Fingon is the memory of kindness, on the days that Maedhros knew him not; Fingon is the memory of comfort, through the nights that Maedhros screamed beneath Angband's claws; Fingon is the memory of love, that Maedhros would have forgotten but for him.

Maedhros will always remember Fingon with love. He tells his brother as much, though he does not expect Maglor to understand that part of that love means that he wants Fingon remembered without Maedhros.

For Fingon was the best of the world. By justice he ruled and was ruled; by loyalty he lived and died. The very same histories Turgon is rewriting tell that Maedhros did deeds of surpassing valour: they have forgotten Fingon.

_He sought not his own, neither power nor glory, and death was his reward._

'Turgon has my thanks,' says Maedhros, and another movement of the song closes in grief.

**Author's Note:**

> 2\. :)  
> 3\. let me know what you think in the comments! you can also find me on tumblr @[fingolfino](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/fingolfino)!


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